


‖progress▶

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Assault On the Job, Blindfolded, Edging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Halted Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Masturbation, Noise-cancelling Headphones, Older Man/Younger Man, Panic Attacks, Safeword Use, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Communication, Sex Toys, Trauma, Triggered During Sex, angst angst angst, sensory play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:01:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26867833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Gil sends Bright home to relax after an altercation with a suspect on scene. Bright uses the time to plan some natural pain relief for the two of them, but the seesaw tips in an unexpected direction.Whumptober: Get it Out + No More + Stop, Please + Kinktober: Blindfolded + Edging
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	‖progress▶

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober + Kinktober = this experiment. I have a handful of different Kinktober prompt lists and the Whumptober prompt list, so I'm going to cross them over as much as I can. Today's came from [Kinktober](https://lustyargonianmaid.tumblr.com/post/627757371721220096/time-to-start-planning-kinktober-fandom-works), [Kinktober](https://jbbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/627189398153363456/kinktober-2020), and [Whumptober](https://whumptober2020.tumblr.com/post/628055505485561856/whumptober-2020-updated).

Even though all the loft lights are off, the silk tied over Malcolm’s eyes brings him respite from the streetlight that bleeds in through the windows. Noise-cancelling earbuds provide quiet that is nearly impossible to accomplish.

Complete darkness.

Total silence.

Hints of lavender glide in from the candles he lit on the arch window. The only sense that draws any focus is his husband’s touch massaging oil into his aching muscles.

 _Tap, tap, tap_ against his wrist. _You okay?_

He gives a _tap_ in return to the back of Gil’s hand. _I’m good_.

His calves, thighs, and ass draw the most attention. His husband’s hands skip his back entirely and dig into his shoulders, share stray caresses to his jaw and hairline. Being treated with such care, his mind drifts.

“You were lucky,” Gil had said when he sent him home midday.

Malcolm was pretty sure his fight training had more to do with his minimally scathed state than luck, but he kept his mouth shut so Gil wouldn’t change his mind and send him to the hospital. His navy suit was covered in dusty streaks from tussling with the suspect on the warehouse’s concrete floor, and Gil insisted on looking at his back when he was slow to move.

"What hurts?" Gil asked while he untucked Malcolm’s shirt.

"Few inches to the left, couple ribs down." Malcolm waited as Gil found the spot. "My pride."

That apparently wasn’t a good answer. Gil radioed the medics as soon as he caught a glimpse of what Malcolm later confirmed in the mirror was angry bruising across his mid-back. Soft tissue damage only, in his ‘expert’ opinion, but it hurt like hell to lean against and got him a one-way ticket back to the loft.

He’d been laying on his stomach facing the foot of the bed a few hours by the time Gil got home. In the last hour, he decided to set some things out on the hope chest for Gil and get started on natural pain relief. He sent a flurry of suggestive texts to his husband but never heard back. "Too many, Bright," apparently. It was only a dozen. Or two.

 _Tap, tap, tap_.

Gil’s lube-coated fingers circle his hole, and Malcolm rubs himself against the towel beneath him. Malcolm has been slowing jerking off, fingering himself since he first texted Gil. The massage was Gil’s add — he’s more than ready for the contact. That plus the headphones have him zoned out faster than he expected. _Tap_.

One, then two fingers slide in, Gil kneading his ass at the same time. Malcolm breathes through the momentary tightness and relaxes into the warmth that pools against his belly. “Mmmm,” his murmur sounds underwater to his own ears.

His back pain has reduced to tension under his husband’s expert care, his body more interested in the pleasurable buzz building through his system as fingers thrust and curve for his prostate. His hips slide along the bed, seeking more friction against his cock.

What will Gil fill him with? They’ve had some long stints with only his hands, Gil somehow not getting tired if Malcolm trades off touching himself. Given Malcolm took the time to present some options, he bets Gil will pick one of them. Gil has already added his own things — Malcolm is pretty sure the next will be his pick.

Gil stills his hip and patters against his prostate, growing the buzz to a shock primed to arc.

And pulls his fingers out.

It’s planned, set in motion when Malcolm laid out the blindfold, massage toy, and vibrator on top of the hope chest and texted Gil he needed help with something when he got home. He’d cracked the lube himself, putting it and the towel to good use before Gil got there.

The edging has been keeping the pain away. The world silent, dark. It's a place of comfort.

He’s filled what could be moments or minutes later. He isn’t sure what Gil chose until slow vibration pulses through his insides. _It’s gentle_ , he reminds himself, the sensation much stronger with his other senses lacking. Grinding against the bed as his want makes itself more pronounced, he digs his fingernails into his palm — he can’t come now.

His mind wanders to distract himself. Other places and times where he was prostrate, at the mercy of another. His husband’s continued dedication to experimenting with new things they both might want. A time Gil pinned him down in his bedroom and tied him up for hours until he was begging to come. A time Gil teased him from the upstairs office with a vibrating plug. A time… “Unh,” Malcolm groans into the sheets.

 _Tap, tap, tap_.

Gil must’ve changed the settings — Malcolm’s not sure how many times. The pulsing comes at a much stronger tempo, but it’s bearable. He just needs to focus on something else. _Tap_.

A time in the darkness. He lay on the floor, unable to tell who would approach, knowing full well Gil was the only one with him in the loft. Grabbing Gil’s hand. His bare feet chilly, his toes curled up to seek warmth from his body. _Clink_. Chains. _Scrape_. Along concrete. _Pop_. The brightest spotlight he’s ever seen piercing through the darkness and into his side. “Little Malcolm, I lived — will you?” slicing through his body to reveal the bloody trace of Whitly.

"No, no, no — no more." He can’t go back to the basement, he can’t — he got out unscathed.

Some damn thing keeps tapping at him. It doesn’t smell like the musty concrete, the metal handcuffs. It smells like — “Gil.” The stimulation running through his body hits him with a freight train of adrenaline as his mind catches up with where he is. “R—red,” he gives a quiet plea into the sheets. “Red! _Stop_ , please.” Gil’s hands must’ve already been moving as he realizes he can see the streetlight on the sheets. _Get it out! Get it out!_ echoes through his ears like he’s outside his body shouting directly into them, but he's not sure he ever opens his mouth. Ass clenched tight in fear, he registers he’s empty and scrambles for the bathroom.

His knees don’t even hit the floor before he’s sick into the toilet. He’s got the shakes, his body covered in sweat, his mind sharpened with adrenaline as it forces all of the fluids out of his body. Watkins was over a year ago. Why the fuck did he come back today? The warehouse? Darkness? Silence?

Malcolm vomits again and coughs as it burns his throat, gets stuck halfway up or halfway down. The whole day has been that way, halfway pleasure, halfway pain until the damn seesaw smacked him in the ass and drove him into the ground. Why today? Why now…

He punches the button on the toilet with his thumb, and as it flushes, he uses the vanity to pull himself to his feet. Dunking his head under the sink, he rinses his mouth out several times and washes his face, then shuts the water off.

“Kid?” It’s Gil, muffled through the door. Malcolm must’ve managed to close it in his escape. Gil…

It’s a small comfort this isn’t the first time they’ve had something go unexpectedly, and Malcolm knows Gil will give him space. Wait for him. Do whatever he needs. Understand. That it happened is still as unwanted as the drips meandering down his body playing abstract connect the dots — he feels foul. “I-I’m gonna shower.” Is that really his voice? Jittery? Scared?

"I'll put some clothes outside the door."

Clothes. Malcolm gets in the shower before he remembers he needs to turn it on and lets the cold water drench him until the warm catches up. It’s refreshing, gives his mind something else to think about besides panic. Only when his breathing calms does he realize air is coming in so much easier — he had been panting, hyperventilating. The flashbacks and nightmares had been debilitating when he first came home after Watkins, but he thought they were long gone. Done.

It had only been hanging out in his mother’s basement for a day, getting stabbed, breaking his hand, and defending his family. He’s not supposed to say it that way, but it’s the headline. An oversimplification of the truth designed to help him move on. He's been through worse. Gabrielle doesn’t like it when he makes that comparison, but it’s true — he _has_ been through worse. Watkins happened. Malcolm walked away unscathed. It’s done.

“That’s not how trauma works, Malcolm.” Not John’s voice. Not Dr. Whitly’s. Not Gil's. Not Gabrielle’s. His own. Talking fog into the tile wall. Bouncing back to his own ears. “You’re okay, Bright. You’re okay now.”

He gives himself a perfunctory soaping, the same soothing lavender he stockpiles in all their scents throughout the loft. Shampooing his hair and rinsing, he stands under the water a few extra moments while the last of his tension drains away with the suds.

He’s exhausted. His back hurts as he towels off, and pulling his microfleece robe on doesn’t give him quite the comfort he needs.

He opens the door to pajamas on the floor. Oh — he was supposed to put those on. Does he want them? It’s not a decision top of mind right now, so he sets them on the vanity for later.

There’s only one thing pressing — where is his husband?

He spots Gil instantly when he goes through the door, his husband sitting in the bedside chair, looking up at him, inviting, compassionate. He goes to him and sits across his lap, legs dangling over the arm. Nuzzling his neck, he takes in warm cinnamon, the distinct scent of Gil that’s always there. Always safe. Hugs him tight around the middle. Kisses his neck and gets a kiss to the forehead in return. 

"Do you want some of my tea?" Gil offers, holding the mug in front of his face.

Malcolm takes a sip, then a second, and hands the mug back. Gil finishes the rest and sets it aside. Malcolm snuggles against him, idly stroking his freshly donned flannel pajama top along his arm and chest while he searches for the words to communicate with his husband.

"I can't do headphones again," seems the simple explanation, a start while Malcolm relaxes in the safety of their huddle.

“Okay.” Gil rubs the small of his back, avoiding any of the bruising that must be etched in his mind.

Malcolm knows he doesn’t need to talk, explain, do _anything_ now, but it’s not worth letting negative thoughts have any more space in his brain. “It was quiet and… really good for awhile.” He picks at the skin beside his nails. “But my head kept wandering. The voices got too loud. Usually I can ground myself, but I had a hard time staying present.”

Gil strokes his hair and kisses his forehead. "Thank you for telling me. For not trying to tough it out."

"I probably should've spoken up earlier." Malcolm isn’t quite sure how, but he chides himself that there had to have been something he could’ve done sooner that wouldn't have ended in running across the room. At the same time, he knows that’s unfair — he wouldn’t expect that of Gil, so why is he setting the unrealistic expectation for himself? He'll analyze it more when he has a clearer head.

“I think you probably did the best you could.” Gil’s patient — always so patient. Listening to the steady beat of his heart under his ear, Malcolm is once again so grateful for his husband. “I started undoing everything after you grabbed my wrist.”

Malcolm didn’t realize he’d done that. Though Gil sometimes errs overly cautious, he’s grateful Gil is perceptive — he was probably unencumbered a lot faster than he was aware. His husband was probably frightened. He frightened his husband. He —

“Profile me.” Gil gives his textbook offer, snapping Malcolm away from his self-destructive thoughts. His statement means he’s not upset, angry, or overly worried, not any of the things some of Malcolm’s past partners have exhibited when he needs to pause or stop.

There are reasons Gil is the one he’s married to. The one he’s safe with. The one he provides the same affordances to, even when he thinks he’s only half as good at it. Malcolm doesn’t need to look at his face to read him. He lets it go like a rhetorical question.

“Progress, kid.” Gil kisses the top of his head. The same thing Gil always tells him.

Which leaves one thing. “Your bed tonight?”

“When you’re ready.”

Malcolm tucks his head under Gil’s chin, knowing they’ll get there eventually. Together.

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> i've received significant support from so many people in this fandom that help make my writing possible. as this story is E, if you're 18+ and would like to chat prodigal son with wicked awesome people, come on by the [pson trash server](https://discord.gg/TVkmgxV).


End file.
